The Assault Read Free

becomes, oneself, that shepherd. It’s as if he wanted to say that all of existence is a metaphor for another reality, and that the whole point is to grasp that other reality.”
    “Then that other reality must be the War,” said Peter.
    Steenwijk pretended not to have heard.
    “Very well translated, my boy. Except for
one
mistake. They are not rivers, plural, that come together, but two rivers.”
    “Where does it say that?”
    “Here:
symballeton
, that’s a duality, the coming together of two things, two. Now the two armies also make sense. This is a form you find only in Homer. Remember the word ‘symbol,’ which comes from
symballo
, ‘to bring together,’ ‘to meet.’ Do you know what a
symbolon
was?”
    “No,” said Peter in a tone implying that he couldn’t care less.
    “What was it, Papa?” asked Anton.
    “It was a stone that they broke in two. Say I am a guestin another city, and I ask my host whether he would be willing to receive you too. How can he be sure that you really are my son? We make a
symbolon
. He keeps one half, and at home I give you the other. So then when you get there, they fit together exactly.”
    “That’s great,” said Anton. “I’m going to try that someday.”
    Groaning, Peter turned away. “Why in God’s name should I learn all that?”
    “Not in God’s name,” said Steenwijk, peering at him over his glasses. “In the name
of humanitas
. You’ll see how much pleasure it will give you for the rest of your life.”
    Peter slammed his books shut, piled them up, and said in a strange tone of voice: “Who looks at man, laughs if he can.”
    “Now what has that got to do with anything, Peter?” asked his mother. With her tongue she pushed the clove back in place.
    “Nothing.”
    “I’m afraid so,” said Steenwijk. “
Sunt pueri pueri pueri puerilia tractant.
”
    The sweater had disappeared, and Mrs. Steenwijk stowed the ball of yarn in her sewing basket.
    “Come, let’s play a game before we go to bed.”
    “To bed already?” said Peter.
    “We’ve got to save gas. We only have enough for a few days.”
    Mrs. Steenwijk pulled the box out of the drawer of the dresser, pushed the lamp aside, and unfolded the game board.
    “I want green,” said Anton.
    Peter looked at him and tapped his forehead.
    “Do you really think green will make you win?”
    “Sure.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    Steenwijk laid down his book. A moment later the onlysounds were those of the dice being shaken and the pawns being moved across the board. It was almost eight o’clock: curfew. Outside all was as still as it must be on the moon.

2
    In the silence that was Holland then, six shots suddenly rang out. First, one echoed through the street, then two more in rapid succession, and a few seconds later, a fourth and a fifth. After a moment came a kind of scream, followed by a sixth shot. Anton, about to throw the dice, froze and looked at his mother, his mother at his father, his father at the sliding doors; but Peter picked up the cover of the carbon lamp and put it over the flame.
    Suddenly, all was dark. Peter stood up, stumbled forward, opened the sliding doors, and peered through a crack in the curtains of the bay window. Freezing-cold air immediately streamed in from the parlor.
    “They shot someone!” he said. “Someone’s lying there.” He hurried into the front hall.
    “Peter!” cried his mother.
    Anton heard her follow. He jumped up himself and ran to the bay window. Unerringly he dodged all the furniture there, which he hadn’t seen for months: the armchairs, the low, round table with the lace doily under the glass plate, the dresser with the ceramic platter and the portraits of his grandparents. The curtains, the windowsill, everything was icy cold. No one had breathed in this room for so long that there weren’t even any frost flowers on the windowpanes. It was a moonless night, but the frozen snow held the light of the stars. At first he thought that